Monday, March 01, 2010

Mom and Dad are in Palm Springs this week. I'm staying at their house with Ellie and Blue.

(I thought I was going to get out of Dog Duty, since Meg is on spring break this week. But she's coaching at a tournament. And I'm answering the bell, again.)

Whenever I stay with the dogs, I spend the entire time feeling guilty for leaving them alone for long stretches of time. To make it up to them, I spoil them whenever I am home.

See: Sunday.

I skated in the late morning. After driving the 40 minutes back home, I got the dogs, turned back around and drove to Lucy's house. We had arranged a doggy date with Wolf and the girls at the dog park.

That's good ownership, kids. I drove 40 minutes, put the dogs into my car, turned around and drove 20 minutes back in the direction that I had come from. So that they could run around in what amounts to a fenced-in soccer field with a few trees and some poop bags.

But the dogs really, really loved it. Ellie doesn't get the chance to really run very often. She's known to run away, so she's tied up most of the time. Her chain is really long, but definitely not the same as running free. She likes running free.

She also likes other dogs. And other people. She happily ran in packs with other dogs. Then stopped to schmooze with the owners of the other dogs. And then rejoined the pack.

Blue, on the other hand, is more of a solo act. She is content letting me throw her a tennis ball, over and over and over, while pretending that the other dogs don't exist.

While we're at the dog park, my uncle calls. "Come over and watch the USA/Canada hockey game with me!"

I feel bad. So I go.

Obviously, the dogs come with me. And run around in my uncle's backyard like fools, playing with his dog and the neighbor's two beagles.

I expect them to be exhausted once we get home. Still, Blue is all up in my grill trying to get me to throw her ball. Seriously? At least they were going to sleep well that night. Which they did. In bed with me. Where else were they going to sleep? On their beds, where they sleep every other night? Please.

Fast forward to today. I am gone from 7 am to 7 pm. I feel guilty.

But I have an idea. And it is a good one.

At the end of the street, there's a big park. Inside the big park, there's a play structure. The play structure is all fenced in. Perfect for simulating the dog park! I am proud of my amazing idea.

Here's where the difference between the play structure and the dog park arise: the dog park has a gate on the fence. The play structure only has a little opening. But I'm going to stand right at the opening to keep the dogs from getting past me. Problem solved.

I am so convinced of my sweet idea that I let Ellie, the runner, off of her leash first.

Seriously, you guys. I haven't even turned to Blue to unhook her leash before Ellie gets out.

Speedy little fucking trickster.

She's hauling ass through the park. Which is not a small park. Which sits on the edge of this huge fucking wilderness area with all sorts of trails and woods and rapists.

Obviously, the dog goes straight for the woods.

Obviously, Blue (who is still on her leash) and I (who is wearing a pair of sweatpants four sizes too large for me) chase after her.

Ellie thinks this is a fun game. A fun chasing game! The part where it is almost dark makes it even better! Maybe if I speed up, I can get around this corner and Aly won't know if I went left or went right!

I swear, you guys, this dog is the devil.

But at least she stayed on the path.

Blue and I are doing our sprint through the woods. For the most part, I can keep my eye on Ellie, but I'm totally nervous that I'm going to lose sight of her and completely lose her and devastate my parents because I was stupid enough to try to entertain their dogs by simulating a dog park while they were in Cali.

I should mention here that the snow in the woods? Deep. Five inches, maybe? And crunchy. Less running, more high-stepping. In my Ugg boots and my pea coat and sweats that I stole from Meg.

We ran for probably two miles.

I fucking wish that I was exaggerating right now. As do my quads.

Ellie rounds this corner and the path splits THREE ways. I am forced to stand there, really, really, really quietly and try to figure out how I'm going to explain this to my mom.

And then the little bitch comes bounding out of the woods and heads right for me and looks at me like "oh, I knew I was missing something" as I put her leash back on.

Yes, dog. You were missing something. Common sense. An owner. A bum foot that would allow me to catch you before I ran two miles. Fear of the coyotes and/or abominable snowman that I was absolutely sure were going to come out of the brush and kill us. A soul. Etc.

Here is the moral of today's stories: I shouldn't be allowed to own a dog.

Hi. I'm A.

Born, raised, educated in the Midwest, I am such a Midwesterner. So Midwestern, if you will.

I am: a blogger of 8+ years, forever searching for my next athletic challenge, hopelessly overscheduled and always, always eating.

I started So Midwestern right after I graduated from college, hoping to chronicle my transition to adulthood. Graduate school, four half marathons, two new nephews, three apartments, a trip to Africa, a sprinkle of heartbreak, dozens of unfinished knitting projects, four turns as a bridesmaid, 8,913 job applications and two full-time positions later: I’m fairly convinced that the day when I feel like a legitimate, full-fledged grownup will never come. So I’ll just keep on blogging.

I write about a little bit of everything and a lot of nothing. Toss my ramblings with a few pictures, a touch of swearing and an endless appreciation for the beauty that is David Beckham and you have So Midwestern. Welcome.